


Immortal Misconceptions

by AbraxanUnicorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbraxanUnicorn/pseuds/AbraxanUnicorn
Summary: Have you ever pondered the relationship between Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort, and how Delphini Riddle actually came about?No?Ummmm, neither have I, but this is how it might have happened…Written for BellaLestrange87's Parody Challenge HPFT





	Immortal Misconceptions

It was during late April, in 1997, that Voldemort first began to get cold feet. 

It wasn’t the icy sort of numbness that could be resolved with a good pair of thermal socks and some Ugg boots, although, come to think of it, his chilblains had been getting out of control recently. Unfortunately, Voldemort’s cold feet were of a different kind. Lately, the Dark Lord had been worried; a sensation which, in itself, had served to concern him further. 

This whole “feelings” business was an alien concept to him. Anxiety should have been reserved for foolish and lesser beings, to be unleashed when their exam results were due or if their brats went missing. Brooding was not something that the greatest immortal wizard of all time should have been indulging in. To make matters worse, it wasn’t immediately obvious what was disturbing his normal thought processes so determinedly. All he knew was that he didn’t like it one little bit, and didn’t he have enough on his plate already, what with his dedication to everlasting world domination?

Voldemort restlessly paced the extensive grounds of Malfoy Manor. He was almost positive that his current mood wasn’t just due to runty, myopic adolescent, Harry Potter, although the sooner that irritating little bastard was squashed into oblivion, the better. No; there was something he was missing. Something crucial about his long-term plan for eternal glory was nagging at him.

He continued to walk the boundary of the mansion, deep in thought. Seven times he strode the perimeter before it dawned on him exactly what he was getting his Y-fronts in a knot over.

Of course.

It was actually so obvious what the issue was, he couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t noticed it before. A tiny chink in his immortal armour was missing some essential plating. There was a bloody flaw in his plan. 

Voldemort suddenly realised, rather stupidly and conceitedly, that he’d put all his everlasting eggs into one horcrux basket. 

What if the basket got destroyed? Salazar Slytherin’s line would be terminated, once and for all.

“You absolute idiot, Voldemort,” he berated himself coldly, as he continued to stroll, hands behind his back. “The error couldn’t have been any more blatant if it had danced naked in front of you, singing ‘There’s a Hole in your Pla-an, Dear Voldemort, Dear Voldemort.’ Gah.”

He closed his emotionless red eyes and mulled over the options for plan B.

What about the Philosopher’s stone or an alternative rock-based Elixir of Life? 

He discounted the idea almost immediately. Voldemort knew he wasn’t quite skilled enough to rely on his own concoctions, and he had no wish to immortalise Snape as his personal potioneer. He didn’t particularly want to be foisted with that great, overgrown bat for eternity. 

How about a combination of ancient spell-work, the blood of his enemy, his dead father’s femur, and a supply of Peter Pettigrew’s body parts? 

The Dark Lord soon crossed that suggestion off his list, too, reasoning that a/ he’d been there and done that, and b/ the magic wasn’t everlasting enough. He wanted something that would last a forever kind of long time. Longer than Pettigrew, anyway.

Voldemort closed his eyes and decided to think outside the box for once. He was tackling this belt-and-braces approach far too linearly. 

Linear.

Lineage.

Oh, how ridiculous of him not to arrive at this conclusion earlier. He would produce a descendant, of course. What a very splendid and novel idea.

That was it. What he needed, in addition to multiple soul fragments, was an heir, just in case his eternal protection failed him. He reasoned it was highly unlikely that plan A would crash and burn, but one couldn’t be too careful these days, could they? 

The Dark Lord almost smiled at the concept of a MiniMort to walk this earth alongside him. If, in due time, the brat proved itself useless, or too rebellious, or, Salazar forbid, a threat, he could always have it humanely destroyed or despatch it himself, of course.

 

Now, the only black cloud on the horizon was that, in order to make an heir, he would need a woman, and the idea of a relationship and, more to the point, procreation, repulsed him more than anything else in the world. Even more than burnt skin on rice-pudding, and the word “moist”. 

The Dark Lord shuddered and gagged reflexively. He shut his eyes again for a moment and forced himself to think of pleasanter things, like killing muggle-borns, until the sensation had passed.

Once his emotions were back under control and he had ceased dry-retching, his next dilemma was with whom, and how? Voldemort scratched his hairless chin thoughtfully.

The possibility of donating sperm to a bank fleetingly occurred to him, but he dismissed it rapidly. He didn’t want any precious magical offspring of his to be polluted by nasty, ordinary muggle mud. Nor did he want to sit in a room somewhere, surrounded by a load of muggle porn magazines as he tossed violently into a cup.

The Dark Lord quickly decided he would make do with what was close by and available, which meant selecting a potential partner from the available stock of Death Eaters and accessories.

It wasn’t long before he realised what little choice he was faced with. 

Voldemort mulled over the short list of candidates. It seemed like he would have to choose one from Alecto Carrow, Bellatrix Lestrange, or Narcissa Malfoy, and none of these ladies filled him with much enthusiasm.

Carrow, he discarded almost immediately. The thought of having sexual intercourse was terrible enough, but with Alecto, his revulsion levels trebled. Even the strongest brain-bleaching charm in the world wouldn’t be able to erase that awful image from his mind. 

Narcissa Malfoy, he considered, would make a decent mother for any future heir of his, but he thought she might be a tricky fish to net, and he really didn’t want to do all that wooing shit. How tiresome would it be to have to chase her for months with flowers and chocolate before getting to bed her? Plus, her smarmy, overly-inquisitive husband was sure to somehow get in the way. Voldemort closed his eyes and tortured himself with the thought of Lucius suddenly popping up in the bedroom whilst he was in the throes of coitus with Narcissa. He baulked. No no, the Malfoy woman would never do.

That left Lestrange. He admitted to himself that Bellatrix did seem to have an unhealthy fascination for him, which could potentially come in handy. At least she wouldn’t insist on long broomstick picnics, or quidditch matches, or any of that other dating crap. He just hoped that when the child was born and the relationship eventually went arse-over-tit, as it inevitably would, she wouldn’t resort to stalking him like some love-crazed idiot for the rest of her life.

Once the Dark Lord’s idea was in place in his mind, the initial execution of it was surprisingly simple. Voldemort summoned Bellatrix Lestrange to his makeshift office, which was situated in the heart of Malfoy Manor.

“Bellatrix,” he declared solemnly to the simpering woman in front of him. “I have a proposition.”

“Then speak it, my Lord,” she cried, all eagerness to please him.

“I need heirs, Bella, and you are the lock to my key.”

Voldemort had practised this sentence several times, and, though he might have said so himself, he was quite enamoured with his metaphorical analogy.

“Hairs?” Bellatrix’s expression was all astonishment. “But my Lord! Personally, I always thought you rocked the smooth look.”

“Not those kind of hairs, you silly woman,” scowled Voldemort, somewhat pissed off that his beautiful sentence had gone to waste. “Heirs. Descendants. Fruits of my loins.” He grimaced through his pointed teeth at the last part.

“Oh!” Bellatrix’s eyes grew round and wide, and something delightfully evil danced within them. “I see.”

“But it must remain a secret, Bellatrix,” warned Voldemort, his mirthless scarlet orbs boring into hers. “I have entrusted this most important of tasks to you. Together, you and I shall produce an heir, and ensure our bloodlines live on.”

“My Lord!” Bellatrix danced with radiant delight, looking as though she’d just won the X-Factor. “You have no idea how happy I am to be of service to you. It gives me such pleasure to be singled out in this way.” Bellatrix threw herself into a low bow at his feet and started to kiss his ankles, which was gross, and made Voldemort roll his pitiless ruby eyes in contempt, but he briefly pretended to enjoy the sensation.

“Oh Bella, stop it! I’m really ticklish,” he chuckled falsely, moving his legs swiftly out of her grasp and changing his position so she couldn’t access them again. “Bella – may I call you that, my – erm – darling?”

He winced quietly and painfully to himself. Voldemort felt like he had let the whole side of evil down in one fell swoop. Darling? What was he thinking? How ick.

“Oh, My Lord! I would love nothing more than for you to call me ‘Bella’ or ‘darling’ or any other sentimental term of your choosing. Could I, in return, do you think – possibly – call you ‘Voldy’ instead of ‘My Lord’, my Lord? ‘My Lord is rather a mouthful,” said Bellatrix, as she shuffled in a coy sort of way. “And, Voldy, may I go and Avada Rodolphus now, as I won’t require my useless prick of a husband any more?”

“No and no,” snapped Voldemort coldly, mildly regretting his outburst when he noticed the wounded expression that had appeared upon Bella’s face. Dammit. He needed to temper his irritation if he was to follow through with plan B successfully.

Voldemort grumbled quietly – this vomit-inducing nicey-nicey approach was harder work than it looked – but forced himself to adopt a gentle voice in explanation, which made him immediately want to kick a puppy to restore his internal balance. “No, no dear Bella! I must remain ‘My Lord’, or the others will suspect our little secret, and that wouldn’t do now, would it? And you know as well as I do that Rodolphus is a key part of my Death Eater army. I couldn’t possibly wish harm on him – yet – so I’d prefer it if you didn’t blast him to smithereens until I deem him unnecessary to my plans.”

“But my Lord,” pouted Bellatrix childishly. “How will we ever get the opportunity to be alone together if Rodolphus is still in the picture?”

“You’ll see,” replied Voldemort, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk, to which she relented. He swung his arms behind his back and regarded her with a comradely expression, which was about as close to fond as he could muster. “Bella, darling, go and gather the Death Eaters and associated hangers-on for me. I want everyone here for a meeting at eleven-thirty sharp.”

 

* * * * *

 

“A strategy away-day?” Augustus Rookwood said faintly, as he repeated Voldemort’s words back to his master. 

“Sorry, did I not enunciate clearly enough for you the first time?” Voldemort snapped sarcastically as he glared at his cowering Death Eater, who raised his palms in acquiescence. Voldemort continued in his characteristically cold, emotionless voice. “It occurred to me that, as a group, you display a number of weaknesses, which those muggle-loving fools could easily exploit. Go forth and spend the rest of the day patching any holes in our army with post-it notes, or marshmallows, or whatever it is they give you to team-build with at these events.”

“But – my Lord?” 

“What is it now, Lestrange?” Voldemort replied rather impatiently, his garnet eyes glaring at his trembling Death Eater.

“M – my Lord, forgive me for enquiring, b – but why doesn’t my wife have to accompany us?”

“Bellatrix and I have important work to do elsewhere, which is none of your business, Lestrange,” said Voldemort smoothly, blatantly ignoring Bellatrix who was practically wetting herself in the corner of the room. “Now go, before I Crucio the lot of you.”

Recognising their master’s mercenary tone, all the Death Eaters and associated evil-doers trooped from the room, asking each other in loud whispers what, in Slytherin’s name, a post-it note was.

“Finally,” said Voldemort, rolling his crimson eyes as he turned to face Bellatrix, hoping fervently that she didn’t want to indulge in any of that romantic garbage before they slept together. He decided not to offer an option. “Alone at last, my dear. Shall we cut to the chase? Your bedroom or mine?”

“Definitely yours,” breathed Bellatrix in excitement, flashing her gleaming teeth seductively at Voldemort. The Dark Lord tried to smile back, and failed; despite the game performance he had put up to convince Bella of his feelings, he really wasn’t looking forward to this intimate encounter at all. ‘Just shut your eyes and think of world domination, Morty, old pal,’ he told himself. 

Voldemort only hoped he could remember what to do as it had been such a long time since he had slept with anyone. All he could recall from his one previous attempt, was how messy it had been. He was extremely glad he’d recently thought to ‘borrow’ a copy of the Kama Sutra from a local library, so he could read up on the sexual positions most likely to guarantee a pregnancy. 

The Dark Lord led the way to his room with Bellatrix at his heels, following like an eager canine. Voldemort extracted a wand from his robes and non-verbally unlocked his bedroom door. He pushed it open and strode into the bedroom ahead of Bellatrix, swiftly closing the door as soon as she was inside.

“Welcome to my lair,” he said huskily, in what he hoped was a seductive tone of voice. “Wait! What are you doing?” Voldemort squeaked suddenly, his postbox-coloured eyes practically popping out of his skull in embarrassment at the sight of Bellatrix, already half-stripped. He did not want to look at her breasts yet, no-thank-you, not when he was only just coming to terms with his mad decision to do the filthy deed.

“I can’t wait to get my hands on you,” Bellatrix snarled, making a lunge for Voldemort’s chest and trying frantically to rip open the buttons on his shirt.

Voldemort instinctively pulled away, scandalised. “I can take my own clothes off,” he whimpered defensively, wondering if he’d made a mistake regarding his choice of partner. He was sure Narcissa would have been much more tactful. It was too late. He had made his choice and he would have to go through with it if he didn’t want plan B to fail horribly.

Bellatrix threw herself onto his single bed and eyed him hungrily as he nervously undressed, his alabaster-pale and hairless body luminous in the dull light of his bedroom. Before Voldemort removed his Y-fronts, he motioned for Bellatrix to shift from the top of the mattress. Quickly, he peeled his blanket off his bed and wrapped it around his waist to protect his modesty. Only when his pelvis was totally covered did he allow his pants to fall. 

Grabbing a towel from a nearby chair, he hopped in his ankle-length woollen garment to the bed and primly laid the towel over the sheets.

“Can’t stand wet spots,” he muttered incoherently to a flabbergasted Bellatrix, who had been watching this whole spectacle with growing astonishment. Voldemort gestured to her, offering her his now towelled bed. Silently, Bellatrix slid back onto the bed and reclined against the pillows, exposed, naked and confused. Voldemort made sure he kept his vermilion eyes averted as he scrambled into his tiny bed next to her. He pulled the blanket over both of them and lay as still as a statue by her side, his hands pressed firmly against his smooth chest as he stared at the ceiling.

“Aren’t you going to, you know,” said Bellatrix, in abject disbelief at the Dark Lord’s prudishness.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I suppose I should,” replied Voldemort miserably, sounding as though he was about to cry. He didn’t have a clue how to proceed. His mind had gone completely blank; all those hours revising the Kama Sutra had been for nothing. What was he supposed to do with his and Bellatrix’s legs? Where should he put his hands? Could he do it all with his eyes closed? He gulped. “Darling, why don’t you go first?”

Wordlessly, Bellatrix clambered aboard his body and Voldemort thanked his lucky stars that she, at least, seemed to know what she was doing. He continued to stare up at the ceiling past Bellatrix’s bouncing head of medusa curls, and frantically tried to think of less embarrassing times. Moments like the one when Dumbledore pulled him up for stealing at the age of eleven, for instance, or when Slughorn got all arsey about horcruxes. Slughorn? He was having sex with Bellatrix and he was thinking about Slughorn? 

He eventually felt his loins spasm and knew it was over. Voldemort hoped desperately that Bellatrix wouldn’t want a cigarette or a post-mortem afterwards as he didn’t feel inclined towards either. All he could do was secretly hope that this disastrous sexual dalliance had done the trick and that Bellatrix was pregnant.

 

* * * * *

 

It hadn’t worked. 

Voldemort sent his bemused Death Eaters away on a Risk Assessment Course for some Crucio and Imperio health and safety bollocks, and the pseudo love-birds tried again.

Still nothing.

The Death Eaters spent a day at Alton Towers. Travers had a marvellous time displacing kids from the queue for Nemesis, and Nott really got into the spirit of non-verbally hexing muggles on The Corkscrew, but Bellatrix still didn’t get pregnant.

Voldemort wondered how, in Salazar’s name, did teenagers manage to get up the duff so easily after just one thrust? He supposed Bellatrix being forty-six and he being seventy-one didn’t help, but still. They had been at it like rabbits recently, and, whilst he still thought the whole thing was undignified, wet and disgusting, his technique was definitely improving. Perhaps his tadpoles weren’t everlasting and he should have issued them with tadpole-sized horcruxes? 

This heir was never going to happen.

He decided to give it one more try. He sent his Death Eaters on a two-day Continual Professional Development course, to make sure they were up-to-date with the latest hexes, jinxes and death-inducing curses, and he took Bellatrix to his bed again. If it didn’t work after this time, it was Game Over as far as he was concerned. His genitals had had enough. That bloody Kama Sutra book had already gone in the bin, useless piece of trash. Half the positions described required a NEWT in contortionism anyway. He’d tried a few on his own, just out of interest, and ended up pulling a buttock muscle more than once. 

After two whole days of non-stop sex, in which Voldemort’s ‘used’ towel collection grew so large that he despaired of Pettigrew ever getting to the bottom of his laundry pile, the Dark Lord was so exhausted that he slept for nearly twenty-four hours.

When he finally awoke the day after next, Voldemort resolved to break off his affair with Bellatrix. This had been a ludicrous plan from start to finish. Immortal wizards didn’t need heirs anyway. He was lying in bed, consuming a cup of tea and a slice of toast topped with the Malfoys’ best gooseberry jam which Draco had delivered mere minutes ago, when there was a knock on his door.

“Yes?” Voldemort said coldly, only it came out as “Zesh?” because his mouth was full of half-masticated toast. To his surprise, in tiptoed Bellatrix, her hair more wildly dishevelled than usual. He couldn’t quite fathom her expression, but he thought she appeared somewhat frozen. Either she needed to put on a coat, or she’d had a shock. 

“My Lord,” she whispered hesitantly. “I – I have some news.” Bellatrix looked down as she fiddled with the hem of her dressing-gown.

“What is it, Bellatrix?" 

“I – I think I’m pregnant,” she murmured softly, stroking her abdomen lovingly. “It must be yours. I – I’m sure of it. Our plan worked. It worked!”

Voldemort smiled in deep satisfaction as he sank back into his pillows and finished the rest of his toast. How good it felt to know he had a plan B, after all. “Bravo, Bella,” he congratulated her. “Now, darling, why don’t you fuck off and let me finish my breakfast?”

 

Not The End, Because Evil Never Ends.


End file.
